


Warped and Weft

by dweebtavern



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Broad gesture at breathplay, Crimes of fashion, Dirty Talk, Erotic denial, Helpful large rocks, M/M, One-sided feels, Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6901150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweebtavern/pseuds/dweebtavern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A garish acquisition in Crestwood leaves Dorian's dignity compromised. The Iron Bull steps in to lend a helping hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warped and Weft

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, though: we all balked when we saw this armour in-game, right?
> 
> The reference to glasses is a shoutout to their invention in the Middle Ages. The reference to Blackwall is based on some banter that may occur when you have him around.

Dorian glanced over the swathe of fabric in his arms and entertained a peculiar urge: to free the last, delicate vestiges of his dignity and bid them escape somewhere, anywhere else than the Maker-forsaken dampness called Crestwood.

Instead, he said: "Inquisitor, you know I respect you more than anyone on this rustic continent. I cannot, however, tolerate your suggestion that I be caught dead in this monstrosity."

Adaar raised an eyebrow and fixed Dorian with a look that would have made an Orlesian nobleman disappear into the twin caverns of his improbable headwear. In Tevinter, such looks resembled the extent of most Altus couples' morning greetings, and Dorian remained unmoved.

"My dear Adaar," he persisted. "It's _plaideweave_."

"That it is, messere!" said the tradeswoman who had produced the offending textile. Dorian assumed her smile was ironic. "The very finest, woven right here in town. Fit to protect any" — she paused, primly — "magically-inclined adventurer. Excellent protection against storms and their more violent effects."

"See, 'Vint?" said the Iron Bull from somewhere behind Dorian, sounding entirely too happy. "Practical."

Beside the Bull, Sera guffawed. Dorian was tempted to throw salt over his shoulder at both of them, in hopes they'd disappear — save that, if he'd had any to hand, he would have reserved it for his ongoing battle against Fereldan cuisine.

Adaar, though: "Look, Dorian. You're no sartorial vision, as it is — the late and demonic citizens of Old Crestwood saw to that. I'd be surprised if your current armour could fend off a well-wielded butterknife."

"Now, now," Dorian chided. "Don't give Sera ideas."

He knew he was delaying the inevitable. Crestwood — an eroded rock wrapped in drizzle — boasted few trade routes, particularly after its reanimated-corpse ignominy, and any ruffians to befall the Inquisition party on the return to Skyhold would be wielding more than silverware.

Hardly fair of Adaar to make a sticking point of it, Dorian thought, with the Inquisition's own emissary against shirtèdness looming smug in their midst, but stick the point did. Unless —

"Look," said Sera, bounding from the Bull's side and grabbing the loud yellow expanse from Dorian's arms. Dorian was relieved to see the pattern hadn't seared itself into his skin. "It'll suit our inclined adventurer right good, yes?"

She held the armour up against him; even the facsimile of wearing the thing, Dorian found, felt beyond bearing. But years of endless re-modifications to her own wardrobe and, Dorian didn't doubt, the demanding timeframes of petty larceny had given Sera a quick and faultless eye for fit. She affirmed Dorian's own, awful suspicion, and crushed his last hope.

Defeated, Dorian turned to the smiling tradeswoman. "How much?"

***

The worst part had been when Sera, walking ahead of Dorian and the Bull, said that she owned a pair of plaideweave stockings, herself — as if Dorian, in even the kindest of worlds, could have failed to notice — and that, now coordinated, she and Dorian could fight crime.

Dorian squinted against the invisible pricks of rain that defied, in what he took for typical southern fashion, the sun's recent triumph through the clouds. Thinking back to an earlier excursion to the Hinterlands, he wondered aloud why Sera and Blackwall insisted on discussing crime-fighting as if it were something neither of them were already doing.

"Not _Coryphetits_ crime," Sera explained, as if this were obvious. "Not hole-in-the-sky, shades-shat-on-your-acres crime. _Real_ crime. Leave Andraste out of it. Stick it to the big hats. Stuff that _matters_."

Dorian had sniffed. "I believe I am one of these, as you so poetically put it, 'big hats.' I'm hardly going to stick it to myself."

"If you were, I'd watch," the Iron Bull put in.

"Well, you are one, sure," Sera said, "but wearing that, they'd never know. It's the perfect disguise. Like growing a beard." She had swivelled around, then, to examine Dorian, before breaking down into giggles.

"Stop imagining—"

"Poncy magical Blackwall! In plaideweave short pants! 'Pwoof, grumpy fireball! Zappity, frowny lightning cage!' Flouncing pirouwhatsits! _Pfffffft_ ha ha ha!"

Ahead of them, Adaar ducked her head and made a suspicious coughing sound.

Yes, thought Dorian. That had been the worst part.

Or, no: the worst had been when, happening across a nest of bandits, one of said nest had let his defences fall long enough for the Bull's greatsword to end him, the reason being clear: the double-take with which he digested Dorian's appearance.

No, the worst —

"Hey," said the Bull, sidling up alongside his disgruntled companion. "We kinda match!"

Dorian felt a dense, cold sphere of horror congeal in the pit of his stomach.

"I mean, you've got brown going on instead of black, but otherwise—"

The Bull hoisted an implausibly thick leg up beside Dorian; an implausibly thick leg, clad in implausibly offensive, billowing, black-and-yellow-striped pants. If "pants" were not too kind a term, Dorian thought, anguished.

Despite Dorian's efforts to stride ahead of the Bull and his damnable gear, the huge mercenary kept pace, executing a couple of awkward, grunting hops rather than lowering his massive thigh.

"You are a man of dazzling grace," Dorian said, "and a true model of Ben-Hassrath observational prowess."

"Flatterer," grinned the Bull, while Sera began to hop alongside him in comradely solidarity.

Dorian rubbed his hands down his face and reminded himself that these two represented, in too-substantial part, the last limit of hope for Thedas.

***

"Inquisitor," Warden Alistair had said, extending his hand toward Adaar. "It's —" He faltered as he caught sight of Dorian. "It's a slightly garish honour."

***

"It's not so bad, you know," said the Bull.

He sat at a modest distance from Dorian. Both men had settled on low, dry-ish rocks near a large, flat-topped boulder midway between Crestwood and the peaks of the lazing mountain range that rose away from the shoreline. Between them, facing out over the umber-mottled hills that sloped back toward the town, stood a haphazard Inquisition banner, a bookmark placed by Adaar when she'd eyeballed the spot as potential campground. The Bull and Dorian were to hold the small patch of land while Adaar and Sera scouted ahead.

Their end of the job made for a quiet affair. Most bandits on the way up had been relieved of their mortal obligations. Further on, any ruffians were likely becoming acquainted with the daggers and arrows of the Inquisitor and her Red Jenny.

Lulls were rare for Adaar's inner circle, and Dorian felt strange rather than relaxed. The sensation was compounded by the fact that he found himself alone with the Bull for the first time. But the Qunari spy — Dorian reminded himself of this fact, inwardly, every few minutes — seemed perfectly content, as well as inclined to steer things toward the conversational.

And Dorian had been raised with manners, among other social affectations. So:

"It is bad. It," said Dorian, "is very bad. I meant to leave Tevinter with an array of its finer aspects in tow; indeed, to embody them in my very being. Not assume cover as a southern native. I might as well start herding druffalo."

"Druffalo," echoed the Bull, fixing a pensive look across Crestwood and into the middle distance of the lake beyond. "Wouldn't mess with 'em. Er, again."

They fell into shared, silent awe, recalling an incident a few hours earlier that had seen the Inquisitor and her retinue fleeing an enraged druffalo after it had wandered into the Bull's backswing.

Perhaps this was the worst part, Dorian thought: the reluctant admiration he felt for the gifted bumpkin who'd translated one of those weapon-impervious beasts into the soft, resilient leather that made up the foundation of his new armour — and the fact of that softness; the surprise of the atrocity's comfort. If not for the pattern — but no. Think of the homeland. A slave would sooner lose his right hand than deign to peel a grape for a man in such garb.

"Point is," the Bull continued, "it's not as bad as you think. Anything looks like that, it's up to the wearer to carry it. All you've gotta do is start carrying."

Dorian looked at the Bull, incredulous. The latter responded with his usual, maddening, one-eyed calm; he seemed to convey a perpetual good-natured shrug.

"You imply that I cannot," Dorian began, then stopped and sighed. "Scion of house Pavus, laid low by Fereldan plaideweave."

The Bull chortled.

"With any luck," said Dorian, "we'll get back to Skyhold after dark. Not that Solas would know fashion short of it materializing in the Fade as one of his 'friends,' but, Maker, can you imagine Vivienne?"

A full-throated laugh. "Okay, I can see your point."

"Would that you could see your trousers with such clarity."

They settled into comfortable silence.

 _Qunari spy_ , Dorian reminded himself.

But for the first time in a week, the sun was warming his neck and shoulders. The large slab of rock behind them, over eight feet high and freed who-knew-when from the worn mountainside, loomed brightly on their left, steady and somehow reassuring, convenient cover for a future Inquisition instalment. Dorian almost fancied its layer of rainwater had begun to relent in the rusting heat of the afternoon.

If not for the existential affront that scratched his collarbone and draped presumptuously across his frame, Dorian might have entertained a sliver of happiness.

As it was, his pride had been too far tested. He dipped instead into the familiar, satisfying malaise of self-pity.

"All I'm saying," the Bull pressed, "is that you can pull it off. You're a good-looking guy, Dorian, and you know it. You might even out-preen Viv. One 'rustic' outfit won't change that. Hell," he grinned. "I'd still cop a feel."

Dorian stared. Eyes narrowed, he leaned toward the Bull. "You would," he said. "And me in _this_." With a grand sweep, he indicated his armour, the wasp-yellow and unspeakable brown buttressing his disbelief.

The Iron Bull looked at him in that relaxed-shrug sort of way. "Well, yeah," he said. "I haven't exactly been subtle."

Dorian stood. "Behind the rock. Now." He began a brisk pace in the same direction.

A brief pause before Dorian heard the Bull scoff in cheerful surprise and stand to follow. Dorian waited with his arms folded, leaning back against the boulder and assuming an imperious look.

The Bull caught up. He braced himself with one arm against the rock and bent down toward Dorian. Dorian could feel the heat of the Bull's body; the dregs of his dignity began to revive.

"Are you serious?" the Bull asked. The lust in his voice was bridled by, Dorian noted with annoyance, clear amusement. "I mean, I'm game, but _this_ is what did it for you?"

"The Iron Bull," said Dorian, "for the past two days, I have endured mockery from countless objectionable parties, including unwashed bandits in their last seconds upon this earth; a caustic Grey Warden and rumoured bastard; and our own illustrious leader. My pride hangs by a thread. I —" He hesitated. "Andraste's tits, Bull. If your savage, wanton urges can overcome the travesty of my ensemble, then you're truly my last hope."

"So—"

"Kiss me, you absurd brute."

***

This was not how the Bull had thought it would happen.

_In the Hinterlands with Adaar and Blackwall, the Iron Bull noted the glare Dorian had been levelling at him for the past mile. Dorian spat:_

_"You stand there, flexing your muscles, huffing like some beast of burden, with no thought save conquest." Perhaps plain prejudice had inspired his initial, contemptuous glance; mingling fear and attraction, however, had locked it. He covered his words in derision to mask his intrigue._

_And, sure, Dorian was capable of deluding himself — these humans were dense. The Bull found the move as transparent as the new, delicate eye-glasses recently conceived in Orlais._

_And who was the Bull to keep a Tevinter brat from the depths of his own mind?_

_"That's right," the Bull replied. "These big, muscled hands could tear those robes off you while you struggled, helpless in my grip. I'd pin you down, and as you gripped my horns, I_ would _conquer you."_

The Bull had been transparent. Of course, in a way, he'd meant to be; of all the hobbies that most fulfilled the Bull, watching humans try to grapple with direct statements ranked near the top. But here, in the execution of the thing, he'd stumbled over that transparency like he'd forgotten to put it away. The Bull had imagined — he did not usually _imagine_ with people, only acts, but Dorian was a special case, whatever that meant. He had imagined a slow burn, the entertainment of stoking frustration and curiosity in the bookish mage. The culmination, say, a long, hot, elaborate night in Bull's quarters. Some binding, perhaps, or, alternatively, a lot of it. If he'd read Dorian right, the Bull might get to smack him around, watching how close he could bring him, how long he could hold him there —

But no: here, in Crestwood, the burn just long enough to see out the acquisition of one ugly smock. Dorian snapped his fingers like a Tamassran who'd spotted a need and, obedient, the Bull had followed.

He'd followed, despite the distinct Tevinter flavour of the summons, or as a result of it: behind or in front of the boulder was immaterial, in the open expanse of Crestwood's rolling heights. The move was born of social reflex, of locked eyes across a Qarinus banquet hall, of the heated scramble for some hidden corner, some secluded alcove, a dark space unseen;

It was a dance the Bull had no patience for, no cultural touchstone to orient himself. Yet he had followed the steps as if summoned by some familiar authority.

"Why, Bull," Dorian was saying, arms still crossed, expression still haughty and now, also, teasing. "Has my incomparable handsomeness —"

The Bull grabbed a fistful of the ridiculous armour, its weave scratching his knuckles as he dragged Dorian up against the rock face and swallowed the end of the jibe in a rough kiss.

Dorian relaxed into the Bull's hold, his feigned contempt crumbling into a soft moan. He parted his lips in invitation against the Bull's bruising pressure, darting his tongue across the Bull's lower lip.

The Bull met Dorian's tongue with his own, pushing deep into his mouth and growling as he felt the other man's head knock back against stone.

"You wanna do this by Tevinter rules?" the Bull hissed against Dorian's bruised lips. "You want this to be a fast," he pressed his hips forward, grinding his already-hard cock against Dorian's, "clandestine," he lifted his thigh between Dorian's legs, pushing just hard enough to be cruel, and caught the answering mewl of pain in another harsh kiss, "fuck?"

"Yes," Dorian breathed, dropping his lips to the Bull's neck. "Please, yes."

The Iron Bull closed his good eye against Dorian's hot breath on his throat, the deft press of what he realized with interest was a clever tongue. He forced down that strange sensation of — what? Fondness, affection? — trying to shake the feeling of something slightly, barely wrong.

They both wanted it, yes. He had imagined Dorian under him, yes – and against a wall, sure. The Bull had worked that to his full advantage on numerous occasions, given his size.

And how he could work Dorian, here, how much the look in the other man's eyes offered. And the Bull wanted it, damn, and that was the problem: pressed against shelter like a couple of warped 'Vints, the knowledge that as much as he served Dorian's needs, so would he be following his own desires. These desires he'd yet to look in the eye.

So, he wanted this, fine. He would give, not take, and make that self-denial part of the gift. _Please, yes,_ Dorian had said, already hoarse.

The Bull said: "No."

Dorian's breath hitched. He stopped his ministrations against the Bull's throat and went still.

"Please," he whispered.

The Bull moved his free hand to grab Dorian by the hair, pulling his head back with violence, forcing Dorian meet his eye. Dorian's pupils were dilated; his cheeks, flushed. His lips parted on the question of the Bull's denial.

The Bull leaned forward and gently bit Dorian's ear, running his tongue along the lobe.

"No," he repeated.

Dorian moaned.

The Bull stood back then. With a look of calculated disinterest, he ran one hand down Dorian's torso, allowing himself a brief pause to feel the heart beating fast alongside ragged breaths and rising heat that betrayed itself in a sheen of sweat on Dorian's upper lip; his brow; along the collar of his armour.

The Bull moved his hand further down, across a taught abdomen that tensed further at his touch, to cup his hand firmly between Dorian's legs. He smiled and rubbed his palm against the straining arousal he found there. Dorian bucked into his grip, breathing ragged; the gaze he levelled at the Bull held lust, pleading, and arrogant resentment, and the Bull could have basked in it for hours. Had planned to. Another time.

For now:

"You want me, don't you?" the Bull said in a low voice. "You want me to finger your sweet little ass. You want to choke on my thick, Qunari cock. That's right, isn't it?"

Dorian's flush deepened, his lips parted further.

"I'm not going to finger you. I'm not going to let you choke on me," said the Bull, grinning at Dorian's whine. With one hand, he undid the fastenings at Dorian's waist, pulling the leather pants down just far enough, and no further. He raised his fingers again, slowly, teasingly, before wrapping a hand around Dorian's cock.

"All I'm going to give you," said the Bull, beginning to pump his hand loosely up and and down, forcing himself to ignore the aching heat between his own legs, "is this."

He tightened his grip and leaned forward to breathe against Dorian's ear: "Is it enough?"

"Please," said Dorian, weakly. "No, please, more."

"No," the Bull echoed. He smiled into Dorian's hair at the wordless, gasping reply.

He felt warm hands, then, on his other arm, as Dorian guided it back to his chest, where the Bull had first grabbed his armour and pressed him against the rock.

"Please," he said, with a soft push on the Bull's arm. "Harder."

The Bull hissed and leaned against Dorian with all his weight, ghosting his fingers along the man's neck and jawline. With his other hand, he pumped Dorian's cock faster, slickening his hold with the precum that had begun to bead at the tip.

Again, he asked: "Do you want more?"

"Bull," Dorian said, throwing his head back against the rock and bucking his hips faster into the Bull's fist. "Please — please give me —"

The Bull cut Dorian off with a palm over his mouth, was rewarded when Dorian moaned against his hand; Dorian's thrusts into the Bull's other hand began to lose their rhythm, faster and more desperate.

"We can't draw this out, 'Vint," said the Bull. "Don't want anyone to catch us. That's how we play this, right?" He felt a huff of hot air against his palm, another whine of protest, as the Bull twisted his grip and teased the head of Dorian's cock with each pull.

"Come on, Dorian," he said. He could feel his own erection hard against the fabric of his pants, tip wet, the shift of each movement tempting him to throw aside his self-denial. "You know the rules. Show me how good you can be."

Dorian squeezed his eyes closed and shouted against the Bull's hand as he came.

Seconds passed as they breathed together, collecting ragged gasps into calm.

"Well," said Dorian, smiling. His head still rested against the boulder as he tucked himself away and began rearranging his armour and haughty mask. He gave the Bull a once-over that the Bull could only think of as _hospitable_. "Are you sure I can't take care of you?"

For some reason, the Bull had to swallow a brief, hopeful interpretation of "take care." Instead, he grinned back.

"I'm good, 'Vint," he said, rolling his shoulders. "We'll do this again sometime. My rules. Not to knock your homeland, but I tend to prefer leather restraints over temporal ones."

Dorian laughed delightedly as the Bull disappeared around the other side of the rock.

***

Plans for Thedas-wide vigilanteism were thick in the air as the group rode up to Skyhold.

"You've never seen a well-watered Orlesian prince taken down a notch until you've watched his trousers burst into flame mid-ball, as it were," Dorian was telling Sera, whose guffaw bounced off the surrounding cliffs.

"You _didn't_ ," she said. "Prissy mage-pants like you, getting your skirts in the muck for the little fellows? You have _slaves_ in Tevinter. You must all be _arses_."

Dorian sighed, masking his real regret by affecting the same. "We do, my dear Sera, and I daresay we are. But while the institution of slavery may take some time to remedy, particular abuses against slaves are easy to spot and amusing to rectify."

"Flaming trousers!" Sera cackled. "Brilliant!"

Adaar rode ahead, as usual, mounted now on some exotic, antlered steed of Antivan origin. Bull took up the rear, and the aspiring wrong-righters rode side-by-side between. The four of them crossed the bridge to the main gates, which clanked and tick-tocked as Skyhold servants hurried to raise them.

"Our plaideweave syndicate will earn us renown across borders and throughout nations," Dorian said. "And countless limber men and women. Respectively, of course."

" _Respectivement_ ," Sera agreed, satirizing an Orlesian curtsy and nearly falling off her horse as the four of them arrived in the courtyard.

In that moment, the Iron Bull knew that all the events of Crestwood had been worthwhile — the waterlogged demon-corpse brigade, the sartorial melodramatics, the subsequent handjob and the Bull's own odd, quickly tamped-down feelings — when he saw Vivienne catch sight of them from castle's front steps.

More to the point, she caught sight of Dorian. The Bull had never seen a look of such naked horror off the battlefield, and nothing like it on Madame de Fer; her jaw dropped as she raked her eyes from Dorian's face to his feet and back again.

"Vivienne," Dorian exclaimed. He dismounted with flamboyant grace and, taking an ostentatious moment to smooth his plaideweave of wrinkles, began strutting toward her. Vivienne clearly wished he would do anything but. "You would not _believe_ what they're wearing at the Winter Palace these days..."

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's been about a zillion years since I last wrote fanfic. And it's been about never since I wrote dirty, dirty business like the above. But the Adoribull community here's just so compelling — I was compelled! Thanks, you brilliant pervs.
> 
> Since I'm a newbie and (augh) wrote this on an iPad, I'm sure there are a lot of places where a beta would've helped. Please let me know of any rogue typos, or if there's anything that just doesn't make sense. (Did the POV shift hit you like a brick wall, or did it work?)
> 
> Also, tempted to start using "inclined adventurer" as a euphemism for "big ol' homo."


End file.
